For Afterwards: Waiting
by Emmylou
Summary: "It's up to you John," he says softly. "Do it when you're ready. If you don't, we'll wait it out together." Sherlock is dying. These are his last days.


**For Afterwards: Waiting**

**Rating:** 15

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Steven Moffat/Mark Gatiss are nicer to them than I am.

**Summary:** "It's up to you John," he says softly. "Do it when you're ready. If you don't, we'll wait it out together." Sherlock is dying. These are his last days.

**Warnings/Triggers:** Dark Fic, Character Death, Terminal Illness

**Ships**: Sherlock/John

**A/N** I wanted to do a companion piece to my short fic 'For Afterwards' in which Sherlock and John take a different path. Instead of choosing to euthanize Sherlock, John chooses to wait out Sherlock's death. This can be read on its own, but I'd recommend reading For Afterwards as well.

* * *

When John finds out it's like a surprise party. There he is - head full of work and shopping and last night's Mock the Week – and then he opens the door to the flat and…surprise! Life as you know it is wrong. People have been lying to you. The mediocre but pleasant evening he had planned had gone out of the window. The life he thought he was in control of is at the mercy of someone – something else.

And this time there's no cake. No balloons. Just the news that Sherlock is dying. Cancer. Three months. Probably less.

Sherlock asks John to euthanize him, using sweet words to make is his case. John reels.

Yes. No. NO. Legality. Friendship. Love. It's selfish, but he's SCARED. Sherlock has too much to give – he needs to go out in flames, not be snuffed out in the dark.

And the bastard is sitting there composed and resigned while John wants to childishly scream that it's just not fair! His mind goes over and over ideas as he tries to find some escape clause. Some way for this not to be happening, for Sherlock not to be dying, for life to go back to how it was twenty minutes ago. He pores over the lab reports, trying to prove them wrong.

Sherlock is waiting.

"It's not fair," John says thickly. "You're brilliant. I expected you'd end up being...legendary. I thought you'd – we'd – have more time."

Sherlock nods.

"It's up to you John," he says softly. "Do it when you're ready. If you don't, we'll wait it out together."

An hour later and they're watching a recorded Jeremy Kyle because it's the only programme Sherlock watches outside of true crime (and John can't deal with dead prostitutes tonight).

John is sitting there hating Kyle and the chavs and especially Graham the therapist because while they're wittering away their unimportant lives Sherlock's precious life is drizzling away.

"Isn't there something you want to do?" John bursts out.

"Wouldn't mind a Chinese," Sherlock murmurs, never taking his narrowed eyes off the screen.

"Not that! Something big. A once in a lifetime type thing. I dunno… climbing Mount Everest? Doing the plate smashing thing in Greece?"

Sherlock looks puzzled. "Why would I want to climb Mount Everest. Is there something special up there?"

"It doesn't have to be Mount Everest!" snaps John. "Isn't there anything you regret not doing?"

Sherlock shrugs. "There's nothing I've ever wanted to do that I haven't tried to do." He smiled softly. "Aside from a brief period as a boy of wanting to be in the Famous Five. I think it was the dog that did it."

John snorts. "Timmy the dog?"

"That and the fact that they couldn't go for a picnic without stumbling on a juicy crime while I was in central London and couldn't summon up so much as a money laundering plot."

"So that's your big regret - never being in an Enid Blyton novel?"

Sherlock frowns. "Well, there are things I've done that have been mistakes. Criminals I've failed to catch."

No prizes for guessing who that refers to, thinks John.

"And…" Sherlock looks faraway, but then snaps out of it. "Well. It's all a bit late now. I'm better off than most I suppose."

After a sleepless night spent counting the seconds sleep was taking away from Sherlock, John slips out of the flat in the morning. Sherlock is still asleep. Why hadn't he noticed the sudden tiredness of his insomniac best friend?

The first thing he does is quit his job. That's ten hours a day (with travel and lunch) he gains back. He doesn't explain why.

Then he buys a Famous Five novel and skims through it. He can't find mention of a breed of dog. A trip to the nearest rescue centre later and he has possession of a mongrel. As an after-thought he buys a bottle of wine and some chocolates so that Mrs. Hudson won't murder him on sight.

Sherlock likes the dog. When John brings it into the flat it darts over to it's new owner (who is sprawled on the sofa looking exhausted and pale). With one leap it's on Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock is – with a wan smile – languidly allowing it to lick his face.

"Timmy, I take it?" he enquires.

John winces. "Actually, Tim is my dad's name. It might be a bit weird."

"You name him then," Sherlock shrugs as he eyes his new partner in crime with pleasure.

"He's your dog."

Sherlock fixes John with an emotionless stare. "Not for long."

Gladstone – as he is named – becomes invaluable for occupying Sherlock when he was too weak to do anything and yet too bored to rest. Under Sherlock's tutelage the dog learns enough to put a police dog to shame.

John is almost sure that Sherlock isn't training him just to sniff out drugs though. Not when he could be trained to locate them and bring them to Sherlock.

John can't begrudge him the morphine now though.

Still, on his good days Sherlock is no different at all. He even turns up to crime scenes as normal and John is amazed no one had noticed a change in him (besides the dog's presence).

"How many people actually know?" John asks one night while trying to ignore Jeremy Kyle.

"Two. Three if you count the dog."

John freezes. "You haven't told anyone? What about Mycroft?"

"Please. If Mycroft knew do you think he'd have kept his oar out this long? I've worked very hard to keep this from him."

Sometimes John thinks about Sherlock's request. About just taking the gun and opening Sherlock's bedroom door in the middle of the night…

It was what Sherlock wanted. Was Sherlock laying in bed, in pain, waiting for it? Hoping for it?

Or had he deduced that John wouldn't do it? Or rather, couldn't. Sherlock's death would destroy both of them and he couldn't sacrifice a single moment.

The search for Moriarty takes up most of Sherlock's free time. They pour over the cases, over tip-offs and rumours. They theorise long into the nights.

In the end they fid him in a quarry in Essex. The scheme is diabolical. The lines between good and bad are drawn. The Game Is On.

Sherlock steps out of the shadows and drawls Moriarty's name. Moriarty stills, and then turns to Sherlock with a wicked grin.

"You've made a mistake turning up here," he smirks, turning around and stepping towards Sherlock.

There is suddenly a thundering roar as ten tons of rubble collapse from a precarious position at the top of the quarry. It's a freak accident and it showers them in dust.

When the detectives, the criminals, and the minions have righted themselves they all stare at the spot that the rubble has landed. The spot where, five seconds earlier, Moriarty had been standing.

Moriarty doubles up with laughter. He howls as Sherlock stands staring.

"Congratulations Sherlock," Moriarty purrs. "You've just saved my life. And for that, I'm going to let you walk out of here. You and your little dog."

They are still dust covered - still shaken - when they return to the flat. Gladstone leaps onto his bed and begins worrying a chew toy. John is about to suggest tea and biscuits.

The attack comes out of nowhere. Sherlock slams him up against the wall, pulls him forward, and slams him back again.

John is too shocked to stop the first blow, but manages to prevent the second. He shoves Sherlock away from him and raises his hands warningly.

"What was that for?"

"This is your fault!" Sherlock yells. "If you had just done what I asked Moriarty would have died in a freak accident and that would have been that. But no – you're too much of a coward to let me die! Well was it worth it? That was our last lead, and in case you hadn't noticed, we're running out of time. I'M running out of time. Moriarty will continue to kill long after I'm dead and what have you got in return for your decision? A sick-patient and a dog!"

John turns away, because it was his only chance of not hitting Sherlock. He tries to take a deep breath and control himself, but he is too angry.

"You're calling me a coward? You're the one who isn't fucking brave enough to end it on their own! What's so fucking special about me? Or are you just scared that all those people who said you'd end up dying alone and unloved are right?"

John is expecting the punch. Fuck it, he thinks, and punches back.

Five seconds later they're grappling around the living room while Gladstone has hopped onto the armchair and is barking down at them furiously.

Twenty minutes later they ware sprawled on the floor, too tired to stand up. The anger is gone and they're both sleepy with released tension. Gladstone has forgiven them both and given them each a comforting lick to the forehead before returning to his bed.

John's nose is bleeding, and Sherlock had red patches that will become impressive bruises in a day or two. Sherlock's breathing is more ragged than it should have been.

"You're right," says Sherlock out of nowhere. "I don't want to be… alone when it happens. I can't quite… I can't understand why I feel like that. I just do. And you're the only one I'd trust to do it."

John says nothing for a long time. He just stares up at the ceiling.

Then, cautiously, he reaches across to hold Sherlock's hand.

"I think I'm just so used to you pulling out an answer from nowhere that I keep thinking that you'll do it this time. You'll work something brilliant out at the last minute. And if I do… If I do what you want, I'll never know what it is."

"I can't," whispers Sherlock, and for a second John wonders if Sherlock might cry.

"You will. I know you will."

Two weeks past the predicted end of Sherlock's life, Sherlock is still alive. He's weak… if John hadn't seen terminal illness before he would have been shocked at how a man could go from completely normal to incapacitated in just three months.

John doesn't dare leave the flat now – not even to walk Gladstone who has been briefly foisted off onto Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock insists that Mycroft doesn't know, but on the few occasions Mycroft visits it's plain as day that he does – has probably known before Sherlock did.

It's all very British, the two of them sat drinking tea pretending that nothing is wrong at all, while John grabs a shower and attempts to eat two days worth of meals in advance.

It's stupid, but John is still waiting for that moment of brilliance from Sherlock. He can almost see Sherlock's mind whirring as it tries to figure out what it was that will… somehow make everything all right.

It comes in the middle of the night. Sherlock has ordered him to bed claiming that his presence is distracting him. John has tossed and turned at being alone for the first time in what felt like months.

It's 3am and he iss just wondering if he could coax Gladstone into his room for company when Sherlock appears at the door. He sits up and puts on the lamp.

"Why didn't you call me?" he says. "There was no need to come up."

"I figured it out," says Sherlock huskily.

John doesn't even pretend not to know what he means. He indicates for Sherlock to come and sit on the bed.

"And?" he asks faintly.

"I figured out the right thing to say."

John swallows. "Go on…"

Sherlock's face is glowing in the soft lamp-light. He fixes his eyes on John's. "You said there had to be something I wanted to do with my life. Something that I wanted… that I regretted not doing."

John smiles gently. "I think Mount Everest is out of the question." He kicked himself as the joke fell flat, Sherlock just continued to stare.

"What? What is it?"

Sherlock says nothing for a long time. Then, hoarsely; "I want this."

This kiss isn't wholly unexpected – though John doesn't know how he knew it. It's tender and one sided at first, and then becomes rougher and desperate as John responds.

It's like a pregnancy, John thought afterwards as he watches Jeremy Kyle by himself (it was set to series link on SkyPlus and seems to be the only thing in the world that hadn't broken down without Sherlock.)

When his cousin had been pregnant he'd seen her at intervals, each time slightly more pregnant than before. He'd kept thinking, in a few weeks I'll see her and there won't be a bump anymore, there'll be a baby.

And when it inevitably happened, and he had gone over to see the baby, he kept thinking how strange it was that, after all that waiting, there it was.

Now is exactly the same, some unconscious part of him hadn't fully comprehended that Sherlock was dying. That he really would wake up one morning all alone. And no it's here he keeps expecting him to wander in.

He flicks Jeremy Kyle off and abandons the living room. Gladstone, who still keeps looking at the door waiting for Sherlock, trails after him.

"I'm sorry boy," John whispers to the dog. He sits down on the edge of his bed and ruffles Gladstone's fur. "I know I'm a coward. And I'm sorry. I-I really can't do this…"

He leans over and opens his bedside drawer. Slipping his hand under the gun and places it next to him on the bed. Then he reaches for the bullets and pauses.

He lifts the packet out of the drawer and shakes it cautiously. It's empty, aside from a faint rattling of paper.

Wondering what Sherlock – and it could only have been him – has done with the bullets, he opens the box. Inside are two scrunched up balls of paper.

With shaking hands, he unravels them and smoothes them out with his thumbs.

**Hypocrite. **  
**SH**  
**P.S There's a clause in my will. If you die in anything but a natural or accidental manner, Mycroft will ensure Gladstone gets it.**

John ruffles Gladstone's fur again and turns to the second.

**Waiting was worth it in the end. It will be for you too.**  
**SH**

**End**


End file.
